Death of a Poet [demo]

Maybe I'll be able to feel it coming
Maybe I won't
Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe
Maybe.
I'm sure I'll have a million questions,
I already do,
Although it also seems likely I won't be
Particularly interested in the answers.
I feel as though I'll be accepting,
Like a merciful autumn breeze
But I can also imagine the opposite-
As I become a spitting, bitter winter wind.
Who will I envision as my final thought?
Or will it be a what?
I'm not certain if I'll accept it gracefully,
Or whether I'll perhaps try to
Thrash and claw my way out of it.
I hope the former.
Alas, time changes people in ways language cannot convey.
So maybe the title of this piece will be inaccurate
I could be anything by then.
When is then? Why do I say then
As though it has been scheduled and arranged?
As though it is not ultimately down to a
Terrifying although biased roll of a die?
And what about my last words? It depends.
Am I surrounded by people I love
In an insulting plasticky hospital bed,
Or alone, but in the comfort of my own home?
Either way, the words which escape
With my final breath will be forced.
False-poetic.
Another question, just a few more before I go, Please.
Will I begin to dread leaving this all behind?
Or am I, rather, to view it as a privilege?
After so many years, will I still be
Yearning for that escape? That peace?
I hope I may find it elsewhere.
Maybe I'll turn suddenly, to a something more
There it is again.
Maybe a smile will stay frozen on my face.
Annoyingly, fear seems more likely
Maybe light will fill my mind, or maybe the opposite.
So many maybes, queries
Fears and theories.
After all, this is what it's all lead up to.
17 years or 70, however short, it is still everything I will ever be,
So the end seems important.
On the other hand, this is happening to a soul out there right now.
And always. So maybe not.
Either way, I hope the feeling that lingers in the
Weight of my absence is not one of resentment, but love.
I like the idea of leaving my people
With love.